His Twisted Mind, Her Guilty Conscience
by LivinJgrl123
Summary: *One-shot* He wants to examine her—she seems to be a bit of a loose cannon. She wants to punch him in the face—he seems to need an attitude adjustment.


**Disclaimer, disclaimer, disclaimer...**

**A/N: Hey there, everyone. I've wanted to write this for a while now, and here it is! Don't be shocked if this doesn't make any effin' sense, because it won't, but I hope you can at least read it and lemme know whatcha think? Thanks.**

"Tell me, Ms. Ocampo, why do you think you're here?"

The glossy black fountain pen the pale, dark-haired man held was positioned above his note-taking paper, ready to write down whatever she said to answer his question. From where she sat—across from him, in front of his desk—she could see that he'd planned out quite a few questions. The room was silent, save for his quiet breathing, her aggravated foot-tapping, and the soft ticking of the clock on the barren wall. All in all, it was maddening for her. There was nothing familiar in this room—nothing at all. It was all neat, and tidy, and organized—and too much of an office for her liking. Not even the clothes she had on were familiar; nothing she wore bore the Umbrella Corporation's insignia. She was used to having something with that damned little symbol on her person—but she was in Gotham. People couldn't have any sort of clue to what she did for a living; it was too dangerous, and frankly, she was in enough trouble already—no need to go pissing off more superiors by sporting an insignia that might raise suspicions; suspicions were bad for business.

"Ms. _Ocampo_," the young man (or at least he _seemed_ young) prompted, regarding her carefully over the tops of his glasses. The way he said her name this time made her shudder. There was something wrong with the way he spoke—with the way he regarded her as if she were just some itty-bitty _specimen _waiting to be dissected on a lab table. Absently, he pushed the middle part of his glasses (she had the strangest urge to break it just then) back up onto the bridge of his nose. "I would like to remind you that you cannot go back to work without my say-so."

He seemed pretty smug about it. It didn't make her mood any better. In fact, he was making her day worse.

The woman across from the psychiatrist simply glared back at him in response. She was slouched in her seat, but her nervous habit of chewing on her fingernail betrayed the aura of calm she might have given off if he wasn't trained to evaluate her mental state—well that, and the bouncing of her left knee.

"You don't honestly believe I'm gonna just _sit_ here and tell you about my _feelings_," she said after a few long, silent seconds that seemed to just drag on by, as slow as a snail. Wasn't that why she was here—to discuss her "violent behavior"? It was—it had to be. And she hated the guy already, and it hadn't even been ten minutes yet.

"I do, actually." His expression was cold, passive, and calm—there was something wrong with this guy. There was something _extremely_ wrong with him, and she was stuck with him until he gave her bosses the all-clear signal so she could get back to work. She had a job to do; she was on the special ops team. She shouldn't need to talk to a shrink in order to get back on the job. Target practice was more likely to prove that she was fit for duty.

Rain scoffed, rather indignantly. "Yeah? And what if I don't _wanna_ share my _feelings_ about this whole thing?"

"Then I suppose you're never getting your clearance back." She could have sworn he was now _looking_ just as smug as he sounded.

With eyes narrowed, she shifted uncomfortable in her seat. Glancing around the near-bear, stone-cold, all-and-only-professional office that had surely been this guy's for a long time, since there was no evidence of anything happy or good being in this room before, Rain was sure that whoever this guy was didn't know a god damn thing about what her _clearance_ was and if he did than she would have had to say that he was just _messing_ with her.

She worked for the Umbrella Corporation; she didn't have the time to sit here, all the way out in Gotham—so far away from Raccoon City—because she had _purposefully_ fired at a _stupid _scientist—no, not _even _that—it had been a lab assistant's, for _Christ sake's_—who knew next to nothing about firearms safety—but knew _everything_ when it came to biohazard safety.

Eventually, something would happen to Umbrella because of some moronic disaster in a lab, and then she—and possibly her team—would be the one to clean whatever the hell it was up because whatever the _hell_ it was, it was bound to be a problem and her special ops team always had to deal with lab accidents—more so than actual threats—that turned into _problems_. And if there was one more thing on this Earth that annoyed Rain Ocampo to no end, it would be _problems_ that could have been dealt with if some _idiot_ hadn't been able to work in a top-secret facility under Raccoon City.

"Ms. Ocampo, please don't make me ask again," he sighed, readjusting his glasses once again, letting out a small sigh—the first sign that showed her that he was, indeed, not a machine, but a human—a malfunctioning, cold, unfeeling one, but a human nonetheless—of either frustration or aggravation.

"I'm not _making_ you do anything here, _doc_." Her voice was laced with disdain, and her expression said more than her voice had about what she thought about this whole ordeal—about having to be her when she had better things to do, like, oh, say, _work_?

"My name, Ms. Ocampo, in case you couldn't read the sign on the door, is Dr. Crane, and you _will_ address me as such."

Yeah.

This guy definitely had _issues_.

Rain's eyebrows shot up, incredulity plain as day in her expression once again, before it soured once again. Slouching down in her seat for the second time this hour, she crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes still narrowed.

Whoever the hell this _Dr. Crane _was, she detested him, him and his cold demeanor, his impersonal office (the only thing on his wall were his college achievements and awards—which meant _nothing_ to the commando across from him, because, as far as she was concerned, scraps of paper didn't do _shit_ for anyone), his profession, his title—his _attitude_, of all things, as well. She wanted to blow a hole in the door, where his name was so elegantly stamped on it in clear, white, capital letters—letters that just screamed at passers-by that he was just so _important_ because he had the title _doctor_ in front of a _bird's name._

When the commando said nothing, Dr. Crane sighed once again, set his clipboard and pen down onto his desk, clasped his hands together, and leaned forward, looking down his nose at her with open disdain—the same disdain she had looked at him with just moments before.

This dude had a **serious** attitude problem. Maybe if he got sucker-punched, that would fix his **attitude problem**.

The idea of doing _that_ made her eyes narrow even further.

"It is apparent you will be uncooperative in our first session, _Rain_, and I will note this in my records if, by the time our session is up, you have not made any progress this evening."

She'd only been in here about seven minutes—and he was already making threats?

He was a crafty bastard.

The use of her name on his lips only served to put Rain in a fouler mood. It sounded wrong, twisted—it sounded _disgusting_ when she heard him say it. But she figured he'd use it to get his point across.

"And what if _that_ happens?" she asked. If she could somehow burn holes in his forehead with the amount of dislike she was pouring into her gaze, then she would be as happy as could be—but that didn't happen. He just stared calmly back at her, like she was just some child who didn't know when to settle down and listen up to the adult in the room—and, goddammit, _Rain Ocampo _was_ **not** _achild**—**by _any_ means.

Rain Ocampo was a grown-ass woman with a job that a child couldn't possibly hope to do right.

"Then I send my evaluation—that you are _not_ fit for duty and you _will_ stay in Gotham for any amount of time I see if necessary in order for you to receive your clearance again—to your superiors, and if I think you must stay for another week, or a month, or, perhaps, _longer_, then I will not hesitate to do so. Am I clear, Ms. Ocampo?"

Rain stared back at him. This shrink had _some nerve_, threatening to strand _her_ in a city she was by no means familiar with, and she honestly had no wish to stay here any longer than she had to. Sure, her crappy hotel was getting paid for by Umbrella, as was all her other expenses, and she was getting sick leave because she'd lost her temper around a research assistant—but she _would not_ stay in the same city, let alone office, with this man any longer than her superiors had intended—and they expected her back after _one visit_.

"Oh, you're crystal," Rain sneered, but sat up in her seat just a little, her hands leaving her torso in favor of resting on her knees. Being dressed as a civilian hadn't been one of the highpoints of this trip. Dressed in jeans, tennis shoes, a black tank-top, and a leather jacket, she was more than uncomfortable sitting across from a man with an expensive-looking gray business suit. Her hair was tied back, as usual, and his hair—well it was curly and well-kept, and she couldn't help but wonder what it would look like if she shaved half of his head.

The idea made her mouth twist into a deformation that should have been a grim imitation of a smile.

"So, allow me to graciously repeat myself," he said, leaning back in his chair, picking up his clipboard and pen again, ready to write. "Why do you think you're here?"

Huffing out a breath, Rain shifted in her seat. Damn, why were these seats in these kinds of offices so uncomfortable? It was like sitting in the principal's office again, back when she was small and too young to realize that getting a talking to was not worth the trouble she went through in order to get someone to leave her alone.

"I'm pretty sure," she said slowly, figuring that he would make good on his threat if she didn't eventually cooperate, "that I'm here because I _almost_—mind you, **_almost_**—shot a lab assistant while in the middle of a training exercise."

Well, in truth, she had shot _at_ him—but it was his fault for being such an idiot in the first place.

It was hard to say how much Umbrella had allowed Dr. Crane to know about her work, about her job. Obviously, he knew she wasn't allowed to touch company property, where it concerning fire arms, till they were sure that he was sure that she was mentally solid. But she wasn't sure if she knew if he knew what went on, down in the halls of the facility she'd been assigned to work at for the past several months. There were too many biohazards down there for her liking, but the pay was good, and she got to play with some of the biggest—and not to mention the most exciting—guns she'd ever laid eyes on while learning some new hand-to-hand tactics as well, but the downside was the bossy lab assistants who thought they had the right to walk in whenever they damned well pleased while the weapons were being tested (Rain was sure the chief of security, Alice—or at least, she thought that was the head/chief of security's name was; she didn't know, because she'd never _met_ her—hadn't really heard about those certain _security risks_ that were mainly involved with bitchy lab techs and assistants who didn't want to use a freaking _hallway_, or else she was sure that if the head/chief of security would have done something about it by now).

And frankly, lab assistants shouldn't have even been allowed in the firearms-testing room—especially stupid ones carrying trays of potentially world-ending vials of doom (as her fellow squad-mates so lovingly called them)—without permission, _or a **warning**_, at the very least!

"The lab assistant says you did this on purpose," Dr. Crane said, his wrist barely moving as he jotted down her answer, his eyes never really leaving her face, even to look at what he'd written.

Confident, wasn't he?

"Do you have a personal vendetta against lab assistants, Ms. Ocampo?" That question might have been humorous, once upon a time, if it hadn't been for his cold tone and his calculating stare.

"Do you have issues with not being treated with the utmost respect?" she rebuked.

He raised an eyebrow at her.

God, was he _still _looking at her like she was an idiotic little six-year-old?

Yes, _yes_ he **was** looking at her like she was a _fu_—

"Do you have… an issue—a problem, more like—with controlling your emotions?" his eyes were narrowed slightly. Had she hit a nerve? She sincerely hoped she had. It would do him some good if she had struck a nerve—

"Do you have a mental one?" she shot back.

He gave her a tiny scoff—another indicator that he had feelings, however nonexistent he made them seem. He was clearly the _epitome_ of "professional"—maybe he was a little too professional. He was just too cold, too unfeeling—too robotic for her liking. Yeah, she could be professional, too—but she wasn't a walking, talking _machine_. She couldn't be that cold, couldn't be like him—no, sarcasm served her better than robotics did when it came to feely-touchy crap.

"Touché," he allowed softly, and she had to restrain the impulsive urge to grin at her tiny victory—instead, she settled for giving him a look of disgust.

"Now, why did you try to shoot this assistant?"

She hadn't _tried_. She'd just fired in his general direction. Didn't anyone know the difference?

Rain decided those icy, blue eyes of his weren't doing her any good. There were focused solely on her and only her, and it made her want to squirm in her uncomfortably cushioned seat.

"I didn't _try_ to hit him," she muttered, glancing around the room—to look at anything and anywhere but his face, because those eyes of his were beginning to freak her out, and if there was anything that was a sign that there was something _very_ wrong with the world, is was that some random person she'd never met before was freaking her out without even _trying_.

"Then what were you trying to do?"

Rain glared at him, standing up to readjust her shirt for a quick moment before plopping back down in her seat.

"He shouldn't have been in the goddamn room in the first place," she sneered.

"Rain, may I ask why you're so… so _hostile_ right now?" he had his head cocked to the side, as if he was _really_ interested in what she had to say for an answer. "Is there a reason for that?"

"No, _Johnathan,_" she snarled, making his posture go rigid with the use of his first name. Oh, yeah—she'd seen his name of the damn office door alright. And she was going to _address him as such _until he stopped calling her 'Rain'. "You may not."

For a moment, he simply glared back at her, before leaning back in his chair, and taking off his glasses with a sigh.

He _really_ needed to be punched in the face right now. His arrogance—his hoity toity, piece-of-shit manner was getting to her. And if he was going to treat her like she was the dirt beneath his shiny shoes, than she would respond in kind.

"We're not going to get anywhere if you keep up your defensive attitude," he told her, sighing heavily.

She straightened in her seat, incredulity written across her features once again. "I am not being _defensive_," she snapped. "I am _stating_ my opinion in a _tone_ that **you** obviously don't like."

He shook his head slightly, as if he were _amused_ by her.

"Ms. Ocampo," he said, giving her an inquisitive, yet condescending look, "do you have a reason to be how you are? Are you worried we're going to dig something up, or—perhaps, we might revisit something you might not want to discuss with me?"

It took Rain a moment to figure out what Dr. Crane was asking, and when she figured it out, she slouched back into her seat, her fists clenched, resting on her knees. Her knuckles were white with the effort it took not to leap up and strangle the arrogant, creepy excuse of a man. And he seemed to take note of this, because his icy, blue eyes glanced between her face and her hands every so often as he waited for her reply.

"There's nothing to revisit," she said finally. "There's nothing wrong with me. I'm fine. I was just pissed off at the guy, okay? Problem solved. Now can you sign the damn papers and give them to me so I can get back to work?"

"No," he said, "since you're being even more defensive on the matter, I think it's safe to say that there is something bothering you."

"The only _thing_ that's **bothering** me right now is _you_, Crane."

He merely looked at her—giving her _that look_ again, the one where his eyes seemed to bore into her very being, like he was dissecting her because she was just some specimen on a table waiting to be taken apart and examined.

Rain had never so badly wanted to punch someone in her entire life as she did now. But she had to control herself. No need to piss off any more superiors—or worse, get fired, right?

But honestly, didn't this guy have anything better to do?

He probably did, but he was probably having loads of fun asking her all these annoying and unnecessary questions that didn't even need to be asked.

"Feeling bad or guilty about something?" he asked, his own eyes narrowing for a change. Those eyes of his—she wondered how'd he do if she gouged them out of his sockets then and there. She could do it, too, she realized—he was holding the pen that could do the job.

Nothing would give her more pleasure than to get this man to stop asking questions, but she had to remember:

She wasn't here to get fired.

She was here to get her papers signed, so she could get back to work, where she belonged—and if she had seen right, she could have sworn, when she had first handed him the papers at the very beginning of the session, that he'd stuffed them in that brief case of his before sitting down across from her.

This probably wasn't going to end well for her.

Rain scoffed at Dr. Crane. "Me? Why would I have anything to feel guilty about?"

The shrink across from her shrugged, almost nonchalantly, but his eyes were now locked on her—as if he were trying to figure out some sort of puzzle that she had somehow been turned into.

She didn't like the way he was looking at her.

This man definitely needed to be sucker-punched.

In the face.

Perhaps, with a chair.

Or a sludge hammer.

Maybe even both.

"Constant denial is a sign of a guilty conscience, Ms. Ocampo," he told her as if he were stating the equation 2 + 2 = 4 to a four-year-old.

"Yeah, and I'm sure you're perfect too," she rebuked, before she could stop herself.

Rain, too late, realized her mistake, and slouched down, mentally kicking herself for being such an idiot around this guy.

His eye brows had shot up, nearly into his dark curls, and now he seemed _almost_ genuinely intrigued.

"Yeah," she said, hoping to distract him from her slip-up—because she hadn't denied it that time, and she had basically _confirmed_ it for him—"I think your mind's just a little bit twisted, doc."

Dr. Crane merely stared back at her, as she glared at him, for a good, long silent while.

Eventually, he spoke.

"So there _is_ something weighing on your mind, then."

"It's irrelevant."

"On the contrary, it's my professional opinion that, whatever it is that's making you feel guilty, might be the reason for your… hostility."

The way he said it made her blood boil, but she had to watch what she said.

"We're _not. Talking. _About it, Dr. Crane," she bit at him through clenched teeth. Her knuckles had gone white again, and they were enveloped in another tense silence, one where they glared back at each other.

Shit, shit, shit…

"I believe we're done here." He said suddenly, his face becoming a mask of indifference as he abruptly set his clipboard down with a sharp, jarring clatter. He stood from his chair.

Wait… _what_?

That was it?

They'd only been in there less than half an hour, and they were already done?

What was the catch?

Rain stood as well, her hands going to her hips as she surveyed his brisk actions of cleaning up his desk. Scoffing, she sneered at him, "So does that mean we get to end this lovely little get-together and go our separate ways?

If he was already sick of her, then maybe he would just sign the damn clearance papers, and then they could all go back to their normal lives—just to get rid of her.

"No, I'm afraid not, Ms. Ocampo," he said, giving her a small, cold smirk. It made her arms drop to her sides, and a look of utter disbelief cross her features.

"_You're not serious,_" she said after a moment, her voice low—dangerously so.

"I believe I am," he said, putting the clipboard—she hadn't even noticed he'd been jotting things down—into his brief case, and snapping it shut faster than she could blink.

"Does that mean…" her expression grew sour, and she titled her head a little.

He _could not _be serious!

"It means we shall be seeing each other again, Ms. Ocampo." The smirk on his face needed to be wiped off, but she didn't want to get into trouble here—there was no telling what the consequences might be if she hit him, when she got back to Raccoon City.

"Oh, god." She slapped a hand to her forehead. "This—you can't do this. I have a job, and I have only so many sick days—"

"On the contrary," Dr. Crane interrupted her midsentence, and she gaped at him as he continued to speak in a rather unrushed and casual-yet-snooty manner, "I can do this, and I just did. And I'm sure your beloved corporation would be _happy_ to agree with me once I tell them I wish to… examine your mental stability further."

"My mental sta—you _asshole_, I'm _perfectly sane_! It's _you_ we should all be worried about." She muttered the last part, doing up the buttons of her coat with angry, brisk movements. Once she heard the rain begin to drum on his office window, she knew her day had gone from bad to worse—all because of this _stupid, arrogant psychiatrist_—and _that_ was all because of some dumbass in a lab coat who didn't know that he should never interrupt a special ops training exercise.

"Actually, I would like to discuss whatever's weighing on your mind in future sessions," he said, heading towards the door and pausing when his hand rested on the brass knob. "I will let your superiors know that you will be staying in Gotham for a while longer."

"More… future _sessions_?"

"Yes. Do you have a hearing problem, as well, Ms. Ocampo?"

Rain was beyond pissed at this guy.

So…

He was actually making her _stay_ in this hellhole of a city, and she had no say it in whatsoever.

Well, wasn't this just _dandy_.

Without another word, Rain stormed on past Dr. Crane and into the hallway, into the crowd of people passing by. The psychiatrist closed his door and turned around, watching her form disappear around the corner.

"What an interesting specimen…" Dr. Crane murmured. "Let's see what's causing your guilty conscience, Rain Ocampo."

With those final words muttered to himself, he headed off in the same direction, towards the elevators, as a clock tower nearby signaled that it was eight o'clock—and it was time for his work day to end, but first, he had to stop by Arkham—to check up on his patients, like the good doctor he was. But, as he started walking amongst his coworkers, who chatted aimlessly about nothing that could possibly hold his interest, his mind kept going back to the last session of the day.

Now, _what_ could cause Ms. Ocampo to have a guilty conscience?


End file.
